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“Forbid it, Heaven !” the hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast :
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide:

'Twas Edwin's self that prest! “Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.
Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign;
And shall we never, never part,

My life-my all that's mine ?
No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy Edwin's too."

Goldsmith.-Born 1728, Died 1774.

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms;
The lovely stranger stands confess'd

A maid in all her charms.
“And ah! forgive a stranger rude,

A wretch forlorn,” she cried, “Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

Where heaven and you reside. But let a maid thy pity share,

Whóm love has taught to stray :
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way.
My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he ;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine ;

He had but only me.
To win me from his tender arms,

Unnumber'd suitors came ;
Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feign'd, a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove;
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd,

But never talk'd of love.
In humblest, simplest habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he:
Wisdom and worth were all he had;

But these were all to me.
The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refined,
Could nanght of purity display,

To emulate his mind.
The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

With charms inconstant shine ;
Their charms were his; but, woe to me,

Their constancy was mine. For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain.
Till quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride ;
And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died !
But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay :
I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay. And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die : 'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I.”

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917-RETALIATION. of old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast

was united. If our landlord supplies us with beef and with

fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings

the best dish : Our dean shall be ven’son, just fresh from the

plains; Our Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish

of brains ; Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent

flavour : And Dick with his pepper shall heighten the

savour : Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall

obtain ; And Douglas is pudding, substantial and

plain : Our Garrick's a salad ; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: To make out the dinner, full certain I am That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is

lamb; That Hickey 's a capon; and, by the same

rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the

last? Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm

able, Till all my companions sink under the table; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my

head, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the

dead. Here lies the good dean, re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom

with mirth;

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are.

If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, Here Cumberland lies, having acted his At least in six weeks I could not find them parts, out;

The Terence of England, the mender of Yet some have declared, and it can't be de hearts: nied 'em,

A flatt'ring painter, who made it his care That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide To draw men as they ought to be, not as they

'em. Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius His gallants are all faultless, his women was such,

divine, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too And Comedy wonders at being so fine : much;

Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out. Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. mind,

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd And to party gave up what was meant for Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows mankind;

proud ; Though fraught with all learning, yet strain And coxcombs, alike in their failings, alone, ing his throat

Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their To persuade Tommy Townshend io lend him own. a yote;

Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on Or wherefore his characters thus without refining,

fault? And thought of convincing, while they thought Say, was it that vainly directing his view of dining;

To find out men's virtues, and finding them Though equal to all things, for all things few, unfit;

Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? For a patriot too cool; for a drudge dis Here Douglas retires from his toils to obedient;

relax, And too fond of the right to pursue the The scourge of impostors, the terror of expedient.

quacks : In short, 't was his fate, unemploy'd, or in Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking place, sir,

divines, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a Come, and dance on the spot where your

tyrant reclines : Here lies honest William, whose heart was When satire and censure encircled his throne ; a mint,

I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own: While the owner ne'er knew half the good But now he is gone, and we want a detector, that was in 't;

Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall ! The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,

lecture; His conduct still right, with his argument Macpherson write bombast, and call it a wrong;

style ; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove compile; home;

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had cross over,

No countryman living their tricks to disWhat was good was spontaneous, his faults

cover; were his own.

Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat sigh at;

in the dark. Alas! that such frolic should now be so Here lies David Garrick, describe him who quiet :

can, What spirits were his! what wit and what An abridgement of all that was pleasant in whim,

man: Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine ; limb!

As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ! Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent ball!

heart, Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at The man had his failings-a dupe to his art.

Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,

spread, That we wish'd him full ten times a day at And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural

old Nick; But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; As often we wish'd to have Dick back 'T was only that when he was off he was again. .

acting.

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tend ;

With no reason on earth to go out of his

way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day: Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly

sick If they were not his own by finessing and

trick : He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his

pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle

them back.. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what

came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for

fame; Till his relish grown callous, almost to

disease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to

please. But let us be candid, and speak out our

mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so

grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got

and you gave! How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that

you raised, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be

praised! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies : Those poets who owe their best fame to his

skill Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will : Old Shakspere receive him with praise and

with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys

above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant

creature, And slander itself must allow him good

nature : He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a

bumper : Yet one fault he had, and that one was a

thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man

miser ? I answer, no, no, for be always was wiser : Too courteous, perhaps, or obliginglý flat ? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that: Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no! Then what was his failing ? come, tell it, and

burn ye,He was, could he help it? a special attorney. Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my

mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind : His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand, His manners were gentle, complying, and

bland; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart;

fire;

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Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests

retire To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning Blest

that abode, where want and pain repair, And ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair; Blest be those feasts with simple plenty

crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never

fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destined such delights to

share, My prime of life in wand'ring spent and

care ; Impelld with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the

view; That, like the circle bounding earth and

skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own.

Ev'n now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; And placed on high above the storm's career, Look downward where a hundred realms

appear; Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler

pride.

sent;

When thus creation's charms around com And though the rocky-crested summits bine,

frown, Amidst the store, should thankless pride These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of repine ?

down. Say, should the philosophic mind disdain From art more various are the blessings That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ?

Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content: Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, Yet these each other's pow'r so strong These little things are great to little man;

contest, And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind

That either seems destructive of the rest. Exults in all the good of all mankind.

Where wealth and freedom reign, contentYe glitt'ring towns, with wealth and splen ment fails ; dour crown'd,

And honour sinks where commerce long Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion prevails. round,

Hence every state, to one loved blessing Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale,

prone, Ye bending swains, that dress the flow'ry Conforms and models life to that alone : vale,

Each to the favourite happiness attends, For me your tributary stores combine; And spurns the plan that aims at other ends; Creation's heir, the world, the world is Till, carried to excess in each domain, mine.

This fav'rite good begets peculiar pain. As some lone miser, visiting his store,

But let us try these truths with closer Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it

eyes, o'er,

And trace them through the prospect as it Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,

lies : Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting Here for awhile, my proper cares resign'd, still;

Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind; Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, Pleased with each good that Heav'n to man That shades the steep, and sighs at ev'ry supplies ;

blast. Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, To see the hoard of human bliss so small; Bright as the summer, Italy extends : And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's Some spot to real happiness consign'd,

side, Where my worn soul, each wand'ring hope at Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; rest,

While oft some temple's mould'ring tops May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest.

between But where to find that happiest spot With venerable grandeur mark the scene. below,

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The sons of Italy were surely blest. The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone Whatever fruits in different climes are found, Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his That proudly rise or humbly court the own;

ground; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,

Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, And his long nights of revelry and ease : Whose bright succession decks the varied The naked Negro, panting at the Line,

year; Boasts of his golden Sands, and palmy Whatever sweets salute the northern sky wine,

With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ; Basks in the glare or stems the tepid wave, These here disporting own the kindred soil, And thanks his gods for all the good they Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; gave.

While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we To winnow fragrance round the smiling roam,

land. His first, best country, ever is at home.

But small the bliss that sense alone And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,

bestows, And estimate the blessings which they share, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom In florid beauty groves and fields appear, find

Man seems the only growth that dwindles An equal portion dealt to all mankind :

here. As diff'rent good, by Art or Nature giv'n Contrasted faults through all his manners To diff'rent nations, makes their blessings reign; er'n.

Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, Nature, a mother kind alike to all, Still grants her bliss at labour's earnest call; Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet unWith food as well the peasant is supplied

true; On Idra's cliff as Arno's shelvy side;

And ev'n in penance planning sins anew.

vain;

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Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts tho'

small, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed; No costly lord the sumptuous banquet

deal, To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short

repose, Breathes the keen air, and carols as he

goes; With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the

steep; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark

the way,

All evils here contaminate the mind,
That opulence departed leaves behind ;
For wealth was theirs ; not far removed the

date, When commerce proudly flourish'd thro' the

state; At her command the palace learnt to rise, Again the long-fall'n column sought the

skies ; The canvass glow'd, beyond e'en Nature

warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human

form: Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores display'd her

sail : While nought remain'd of all that riches

gave, But towns unmann'd, and lords without a

slave: And late the nation found, with fruitless

skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill. Yet still the loss of wealth is here sup

plied By arts, the splendid wrecks of former

pride; From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n

mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'a, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade : Processions form'd for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove. By sports like these are all their cares be

guiled, The sports of children satisfy the child : Each nobler aim, represt by long control, Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mind : As in those domes, where Cesars once bore

sway, Defaced by time, and tott'ring in decay, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wond'ring man could want the larger

pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them, turn we to

survey Where roagher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansions

tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : No product here the barren hills afford But man and steel, the soldier and his

sword : No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter ling'ring chills the lap of May: No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, • But meteors glare, and stormy glooms

invest. Yet still, e'en here content can spread a

charm, Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.

And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, ev'ry labour sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round

surveys His children's looks, that brighten at the

blaze; While his loved partner, boastful of her

hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board :
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart Imprints the patriot passion on his heart; And e'en those hills, that round his mansion

rise, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies : Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the

storms; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's

breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's

roar, But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states

assign'd : Their wants but few, their wishes all confined: Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but

few;

For ev'ry want that stimulates the breast Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. Whence from such lands each pleasing science

flies, That first excites desire, and then supplies; Unknown to them, 'when sensual pleasures

cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy; Unknown those pow'rs that raise the soul to

flame, Catch ev'ry nerve, and vibrate through the

frame. Their level life is but a mould'ring fire, Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong

desire;

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